Trick or oh no, please don't cry
by babybluecas
Summary: Dean expected the Halloween night, spent on giving out candy, to be rather uneventful. And it was, at least until the tiny disaster happened.


Giving candy away is the closest to trick-or-treating a grown ass guy can have on a Halloween night. And if that ain't just the worst thing about adulthood, it's a strong second, if you ask Dean. Right after taxes, that is. Long gone are the times of ringing the doorbells with a cheerful chant on his tongue, counting the sweets as they filled up the bags. Best he can hope for these years are a few leftover sweets at the bottom of his very big and very empty bowl. And that's only if the number of little monsters and superheroines at his doormat falls a little short of the anticipated.

On the bright side, isn't it worth it? Just for the bright smiles on the kiddos' painted faces, their gleeful chatter as they rush down his sidewalk to reach the next house?

Besides, who said Dean can't have a little fun himself, while at it? The decorations, the costume, the whole shtick, even if the kids are the only ones who'll see it? He spent most of the morning putting up fake spiderwebs and carving the coolest jack-o-lantern for the porch.

The costume he's quite proud of, too, even if assembling it wasn't too hard. It's homemade, mainly, except for the fangs, of course. And the most invaluable help from his best friend's artistic girlfriend. Once Gilda was done slapping make-up on him, Dracula got nothing on him. Art, that's what it is.

Even before the sun began to set, he was ready. Climactic music — some playlist with horror movie themes on loop — and a good book for the slower moments in between the doorbells.

An hour later, he hasn't progressed a page. Where the heck do all those kids come from? He doesn't remember having so many of them in the neighborhood.

"The coolest costume, mister Winchester!" praises a short, green Hulk.

"Thank you, Todd, yours is awesome as well," Dean lisps through the fake teeth.

The kid flashes his teeth in a grin and scoots to catch up with his friends. Dean closes the door behind him, but doesn't even hope to walk far away from it. He doesn't sink comfortably into his armchair, doesn't even take out his fangs.

It's hardly a minute or two before there's someone at the door again. There's one ring, then patient silence.

Dean reaches for the handle with the, well-practiced by now, grimace pasted on his face, fangs out. He opens the door. The hiss dies down in his mouth.

At his doormat, stands the tiniest Supergirl, staring up at his face with wide, wide eyes, mouth open. She pales, takes a step back. Her bag of candy drops to the ground.

"Hey, hey, no, it's okay—" Dean tries to calm her down.

He crouches to lower himself to the little girl's level and pulls out his fangs to show her they're made of plastic.

It only makes things worse. The tears welled up behind her eyelids start to drip down her cheeks. She gives out a distressed shriek and turns around to make her escape.

"Claire!"

Some guy — her dad, probably — is right there to scoop her up into his arms. She buries her face in his jacket, still giving out tiny sobs as he comforts her.

"I am so sorry, I didn't—" Dean starts but is cut off wordlessly with a single glare from the man.

It's fucking terrifying. His eyes are cold and penetrating Dean to his core, the epitome of the 'if looks could kill' cliche, magnified by the thin line of his lips, tight jaw, boiling fury he might any moment unleash on Dean's ass.

And then the man takes a step toward him. Dean struggles not to take a step back.

"What in heavens were you thinking scaring a little child?" he accuses, his guttural voice resonating in Dean's bones. "Do you have nothing better to do?"

Another step and he's nearly in Dean's face. His hand rubbing circles into the girl's back, petting her hair, lovingly. His eyes never breaking the murderous stare.

"I, um," Dean tries, but no excuses come into his head, except that he didn't mean to, that it never happened before.

He swallows. The guy's too close, too intense. The scent of his cologne is all up Dean's nose, makes it hard to focus.

His eyes are so freakin' blue.

Dean needs to look anywhere but at him, if he ever wants to spit out a comprehensive sentence. He drops his eyes to the bundle of blond hair and red cape in the man's arms, so tiny. Way too tiny for this sort of fun, isn't she?

"Well—" Dean lifts his chin and crosses his arms, fueled by the sense of slight injustice going on here—"what were you thinking letting a little child trick-or-treating alone?"

The guy doesn't seem too fazed.

"I was standing right there," he replies evenly.

Dean shrugs. "You should have expected this could happen."

The corner of the guy's lips lifts in a barely-there smirk. "I didn't expect much from a house with one lousy pumpkin on the porch."

Dean sucks in a breath, completely flabbergasted. Lousy? How dares he call his badass jack-o-lantern _lousy_?

But before he can spit out some brilliant come back, the Supergirl shifts and turns her head around to take a peek at him. Just to check if he's still so scary. He is — with a gasp, she pushes her face back into her dad's collar.

And then, she tries again.

Screw her father, the baby girl is who matters at the moment.

"Hey, Claire," Dean coos in the softest voice, trying to make himself as non-threatening as his ashen, bloodied face lets him. "It's okay, see? I'm not scary."

It's working, barely — she's still pressed tightly to her dad's chest, with fingers wrapped around the hem of her cape, looking at him with one eye only — but she's not looking away, and she's hardly crying anymore.

"Ugly," she decides, quietly, pursing her lips.

Dean can't help but chuckle at that. Claire shies a little at the sound at first, but then she huffs out a brief giggle as well. Turns out even her dad knows how to smile.

"Think I know who you got that from," Dean mutters to himself, though making sure her dad can hear it as well. To Claire, he says, "It's just paint—" he slides his fingers across his neck to smear the make-up off—"see?"

Claire cocks her head to the side, inspecting Dean's neck. The results must be inconclusive because she lets go of the cape and reaches out to his face. He leans closer to let her brush her fingers across his cheek.

At last, she seems content. She whispers something to her dad and wiggles her legs for him to let her down. As soon as her feet touch the ground, she rushes toward the door, only to collect her candy bag and return to Dean.

"Trick or treat?" she calls with a wide smile, holding out the bag and waiting for candies to fall into it.

"Right!" Dean claps his hands and waves for her to follow him to the bowl. "And what will that be? Caramel? Chocolate?"

"Peanut butter!"

"Peanut butter it is!"

He picks the right packs and puts them into Claire's bag. He grabs a caramel bar, too, and slips it into the front pocket of her dad's jacket before the guy can protest. There's still something quite intimidating about his posture, but the tension on his face seems like more of a stubborn act than anything genuine.

"Name's Dean, by the way." Dean pulls out the hand to him. "New neighbors, I'm guessing?"

The guy stares at him for a longer moment before, at last, giving up.

"Castiel." He shakes Dean's hand and turns to Clare. "What do you say?"

"Thank you! Bye!" she says, waving to Dean, the other palm pushed into Castiel's.

"Bye, Claire!" Dean waves her back until they reach the street. He shakes his head, feeling a smirk creeping up on his face. "Bye, Castiel," he murmurs to himself, closing the door.


End file.
